


It's God Who's On Holiday

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [81]
Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pining, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-09 19:31:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15274683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: When winter sets in, even the devil fucks off.





	It's God Who's On Holiday

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: I spent a lot of time looking into your eyes and realizing how just how much you’ve changed.

When winter sets in, even the devil fucks off. Or maybe it’s God who’s on holiday. Either way, their hotline to evil goes quiet in January, in the middle of a winter that everyone they encounter in spit-and-you-miss-it Tyhee, Idaho tells them is the worst in 20 years.

The first week isn’t so bad. It’s nice, actually, to spend the days reading and watching Tomas argue with the TV, to eat ramen noodles and vending machine crisps and fall asleep in an actual bed.

And showers. Marcus takes a lot of showers. Sometimes even indulges in a bath. He’d forgotten what it felt like to be clean, to have his skin free of pus and vomit and sweat. There’s no bubble bath but he cheats sometimes and dumps the little bottles of hotel shampoo under the tap, makes the bathroom smell like somebody’s idea of a field full of flowers. It’s fucking glorious, actually.

When he gets antsy, he puts on every stitch of clothing he can and braves it out to the corner market three blocks up for food and cigarettes and the occasional beer. He comes back damp and shivering and dumps the bounty on the tiny table by the door, watches Tomas’s eyes light up as he pounces on the Twinkies or the biscuits, beaming like a child at Christmas.

“Never had you down as a sweet tooth,” Marcus says, knocking back his hood and reaching for the laces of his boots.

Tomas laughs at him--laughs! God, it’s a beautiful sight. “Really? Tsk. Then you haven’t been paying attention.”

“Haven’t I?”

“Apparently,” Tomas says, flopping back on the nearest bed with an angelic sigh, his fingers twisted in cellophane, “no.”

He looks young like this, does Tomas, even behind the beard. The darkness in his eyes, under them, has started retreating, and there’s an ease in his face, a light, that Marcus had begun to forget could live there.

“What?” Tomas says, his mouth full of creme. “Why are you staring?”

Marcus does not blush. He does not. “Because you’ve got cake all over your face, you glutton,” he says. “I didn’t know I should have fetched a bib, too.”

Tomas rolls his eyes and takes another bite, his face almost dreamy. “Pffft. Marcus.”

That night, he dreams of Tomas on his knees, his hands--those lovely, agile fingers--spread like butterflies on the inside of Marcus’s thighs. “Marcus,” this Tomas sighs, his mouth splattered with white, his lips sticky beneath the kiss of Marcus’s thumb, “why are you staring?”

He wakes up stiff and...not ashamed, per say, but painfully aware of the lack of privacy, of Tomas’s gentle snores from the next bed. He wants, yes, but when is that ever new? It’s not the first time his mind has taken him to Tomas, drifted into that happy avenue of desire; usually, he revels in it, holds onto the feeling until the next time there’s a door between them, a distance, and sinks back into it, comes with a muffled groan under the spray of the shower or in his own hand.

He wonders why this time feels different.


End file.
